The Expat Affair
Kimberly Belle
On Sale Date: June 3, 2025
9780778310945
Trade Paperback
$18.99 USD
320 pages
USA Today bestselling author Kimberly Belle
returns with an exhilarating new thriller about an American expat whose startling
discovery plunges her into the glamorous but deadly world of Amsterdam’s
diamond industry, and the one woman who may hold the answer.
Rayna Dumont is getting a fresh start in Amsterdam. Following a nasty divorce, she takes a jet-setting new job and embraces the single life. All seems to be going well until she wakes up in the bed of Xander van der Vos, her one-night stand from the night before, only to find him brutally murdered in the room next door. To make matters worse, millions of dollars’ worth of diamonds are missing from his safe. Quickly, Rayna becomes the prime suspect and is thrown into a deadly game of cat and mouse with forces beyond her wildest imagination.
From her lavish home in the heart of the city, Willow Prins is enraptured by the case. The wife of Thomas Prins, CEO of the House of Prins and Xander’s former boss, Willow is too familiar with what it’s like to be the outsider in the elite world of luxury goods. But as the House comes under scrutiny, tensions rise in her already strained marriage and Willow starts to wonder if Rayna might be the solution she’s been looking for.
As both women dive into the dark underbelly of the diamond
industry, their hope for survival hinges on navigating a web of power and
revenge. And as Rayna fights to clear her name, will she unravel the truth or
find herself another victim?
BUY LINKS:
Teaser Sneak Peek Excerpt:
Part One
“A diamond is forever.”
—Francis Gerety of N.W. Ayer &
Son for De Beers
RAYNA
My
eyes snap open on a jolt, and I blink into a room that’s as dark as a cave. For
the first few blissful seconds, my body relaxes into a scene that feels all too
familiar. The spicy scent of male on thousand-count sheets. The cushion of a
criminally expensive mattress cradling my bones. A down-filled comforter
skimming my naked skin like a lover.
And
then I remember.
Not
my bed. Not my home. Where the sheets were criminally soft but the bed cold and
lonely, even though there were two people in it.
Correction:
there were three people, though you better believe I didn’t know it at
the time.
Stop.
Abort. This is not
the time to be thinking such things, when you find yourself in another man’s
bed and when there’s definitely another woman in your old one. Fourteen
months and a whole ocean between me and the ashes of my old life, and that man
can still muscle his way into my head when I least want him there. Despite
everything that brought me here, to a new life on the other side of the planet,
Barry still holds that power, dammit.
I
shove him from my mind and swipe my limbs across the rumpled cotton, making an
angel on the feather and foam. On the other side of the bedroom wall, water
clatters onto slick marble tiles. Xander, owner of this fine bed and plush
penthouse apartment, taking a shower.
Snippets
of last night flash in my head, lighting up some of the darkness that’s lived
there since the divorce. The bar, the restaurant, the fish washed down with a
bottle of perfectly chilled Chablis, champagne bubbles tickling the back of my
throat, making out with Xander on the freezing terrace, our bodies tangled
under his thick duvet, the sky and the stars and the glittering lights
stretching into the darkness like a carpet of diamonds. My head rolls on the pillow
to face the far wall, where the tiniest strip of daylight pushes through the
floor-to-ceiling drapes. The fabulous but freezing terrace on the other side of
that wall of windows where I stood, pressed against the glass railing, staring
out at the view.
I
push up onto an elbow and blink around the dim bedroom, wondering how long
Xander’s showers typically run. My gaze drifts to the open bedroom door, and a
strip of lit-up runner in the hallway. Puffs of steam waft across the plush
burgundy carpet like a nightclub fog machine. Apparently, pretty long.
“Does
this hookup come with coffee? Oat milk if you’ve got some, and I wouldn’t say
no to a croissant.”
This
new Rayna, she’s cheeky. The kind of girl who wakes up the morning after a
drunken one-night stand with no regrets. Zero. Not a single one.
My
phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I roll onto a hip and pluck it from the
charger. My roommate, Ingrid, the gorgeous, lanky blonde I met on craigslist
when I answered her ad for a spare room. Ingrid works in the city center, at a
shop that doesn’t open until late morning. In the few months we’ve lived under
the same roof, I’ve never seen her conscious before ten.
I
frown, swiping with a thumb to answer. “What’s wrong?”
“Well,
seeing as I’m here and you’re there, I’m guessing nothing.” She yawns, loud and
breathy into the phone. “I take it the date was a success.”
Ingrid
knows all about the date because she was there, eating breakfast in the kitchen
when the notification hit my phone that Xander had swiped right. She plucked my
cell out of my hand to study his profile picture, a close-up of his face bathed
in late-afternoon sun.
“Cute,”
she said, handing my phone back. “If you don’t swipe right, I will. Though I’m
not sure about that bio. 73% gentleman. 27% rogue. What does that even mean?”
I
took in Xander’s sharp jawline, wide-set eyes, crooked, close-lipped smile that
made him look like he was holding on to a secret.
“I
don’t know, but I’m intrigued.”
He
was handsome enough that I swiped right, too. Almost immediately, another
notification pinged my phone: It’s a match! And two seconds after that,
a message.
Hello, Rayna with the red hair. How is your day so far?
Perhaps
a bit overeager but friendly enough, and not the least bit icky. The perfect
first message as far as I was concerned.
After
that, the day was a blur of back and forth. First via Tinder, then on WhatsApp,
then through comments on my Instagram.
Nice wings,
he left under a shot of me last summer in Nashville, standing against a wall
with a painted mural of a butterfly. Next time you go to Music City, #ImIn.
I
smile into the phone. “Yes, Ingrid. The date went very well.”
“Are
you still there?” she says, her voice perkier now. “Are you with him right
now?”
I
wriggle higher on the pillow, listening to the water on the other side of the
wall. I hadn’t heard him slip out of bed, hadn’t so much as stirred when the
shower started up, which says a little something about the state I was in last
night.
“No.”
There’s a soft whirring and the wall to my left shifts, the blackout shades
working on what I assume is a timer. They travel up a wall of steel-and-glass windows,
letting in a mauve, early morning light. “He’s currently in the shower.”
Ingrid
squeals, and the sound does something to me. My old life was filled with
moments like these, early morning gossip fests about the night before, trading
anecdotes about our lives and families and men. Since moving to Amsterdam, my
address book has become a lot slimmer, but whoever said women in Amsterdam are
notoriously difficult to befriend has never met Ingrid. From the moment I
wheeled my suitcase into her apartment, she’s been nothing but friendly—and Lord
knows I could use a friend.
“Why
did you answer the phone?” she says now. “Get your ass in there. What is it you
Americans say? Do it for the team.”
She
hangs up before I can correct her.
I
toss my phone to the bed, telling myself that Ingrid is right. I should get
in there, mostly because it’s the opposite of what the old Rayna would do. The
old Rayna would be chastising herself for spending a night with a man she just
met and slinking out of here in shame. The new and improved Rayna, though—Rayna
2.0—she knows how to have a good time.
On
the other side of the wall, the shower is still going, the steam still creeping
along the hallway runner. New city, new life, new me.
I
push back the covers and slide out of bed. “Hey, lover. You got
room in
that fancy shower of yours for me?”
LIKE THE
REST of this place, Xander’s bathroom is a work of art. A great wash of veiny
brown and cream marble stretched across the floors, climbing the walls, plopped
onto floating cabinets and molded into sinks. LED lights blaze down from sleek
spotlights in the ceiling, a light so bright it stops me in the doorway. I
stand there for a minute, blinking into the steamy space.
A
towel is tossed carelessly on the floor next to a bath mat. A tube of
toothpaste lies on the edge of the sink on the left wall. The shower is still
going, tucked behind a marble wall and a door of steamed-up glass, a steady
clattering that echoes in the room. A tiny frisson of electricity crackles
under my skin. He’s been in there an awfully long time.
“Xander?”
No
answer.
I
take a tentative step forward, and my bare foot lands in a tepid puddle. That’s
when I notice the rest of the floor is wet, too, big pools of water like
someone sprayed the marble with a garden hose. Next to the big square tub, a
dented shampoo bottle lies on its side, burping up a purple-tinged goo, thick
and slimy. A good ten feet from the shower door.
“Everything
okay in there?”
Everything
is not okay. Of this I am certain. I know it with every ounce of my being even
if I can’t quite name what’s wrong. An instinctual kind of alarm bell, like
running up to the edge of a cliff. I know it long before I step onto the
drenched bath mat and tug open the shower door.
The
first thing I see is a foot, male and knobby. Don’t look don’t look
don’t look. It’s like an out-of-body experience—me screaming the
instruction at myself from above, but it’s too late because I’ve already seen
the foot and the angle is all wrong. Xander’s toes are pointed to the sky. Like
he fell, maybe, whacked his head on the way down. Knocked himself unconscious
and landed flat on his back.
Except
no. This is more than unconscious. This is utterly, horrifyingly still. Despite
the steaming water beating down on his motionless body. Despite me nudging his
bare foot with mine.
My
gaze wanders up his body. His long, lean legs, his athletic torso. One hand is
curled in a loose fist on his chest, the other arm, his right, is stretched
across the floor as if he’s reaching for something. For a full five seconds, I
watch swirls of pretty pink spiral toward the drain before I realize what it
is: blood, leaking from the stump where his pointer finger used to be.
But
the finger isn’t the worst, not by a long shot. Xander’s eyes are open, but
they’re wide and red and empty. His mouth hangs in a yawn or maybe a deep
breath he can’t catch because his neck . . .
Oh
my God. His neck. A thin band of opaque plastic is wrapped around it like a
tourniquet.
It’s
a zip tie. A fucking zip tie.
I
scream and lurch backward, one foot catching in the mat, the other skidding
across the water-slick floor. My arms flail, and my feet fly upward. I land on
a hip, hitting the marble hard enough to rattle my teeth.
Holy
shit.
I
scrabble forward on my hands and knees, and maybe it’s all the booze, but last
night’s dinner comes up in a sudden and sour wave, a perfectly cooked piece of
halibut on a bed of creamy peas and haricots verts. It lands on the marble with
the water and the blood
and the
purple-tinged shampoo, splashing on my knees and thighs.
I
stagger to a stand and stumble back toward the hall, but the floor is wet and
the bathroom is spinning and this is really happening. Xander is really dead.
Someone really killed him while I was sleeping in the next room.
Not
dead. Murdered.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
SOCIAL LINKS:
Author website: https://www.kimberlybellebooks.com/
Facebook: @KimberlyBelleBooks
Twitter: @KimberlySBelle
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